


My Boyfriend, The Loose Cannon

by raisedbymoogles



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Character Study, Crack Pairing, Humor, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodimus Prime and Galvatron have a contentious relationship. And they wouldn't have it any other way.</p>
<p>Violence, consent issues, and unhealthy relationship dynamics. Mentions of slavery and war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Boyfriend, The Loose Cannon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mmouse15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmouse15/gifts).



> For the_fic_trader challenge on Dreamwidth, for mmouse15. I would've posted this sooner, but I'm lazy.

“No. No, Galvatron - I said no. Not even if - seriously, _no._ I adore you, I fear you, I worship the ground you walk on but this. Is where. I draw. The line.”

_Meet my boyfriend: the loose cannon._

Galvatron pulled away from the conference table, a growl already darkening the air around him, optics narrow though the maddening _smirk_ remained, the one that he got when he knew he was going to get exactly what he wanted and nothing was going to stand in his way. Rodimus fought the instinct to back up, cut the charge to his wrist blasters and met Galvatron toe to toe, chest to chest. They were nearly of a height, and having to look up just that fraction into Galvatron’s face only meant that Rodimus could get in a stubborn chin-tilt too.

“It’s a bad idea,” he said quietly, and Galvatron’s smirk stretched, flashing sharp denta.

“That’s never stopped you before, _Prime,_ ” answered the Leader of the Decepticons, Emperor of Destruction, and any number of a hundred other titles he tried on and threw away at a whim. Rodimus firmed his mouth against a sudden, tingling urge to kiss him, all the retreat he would allow himself.

_He’s kind of - okay, he’s a total exhaust pipe. Selfish and violent and thinks every problem can be solved by shooting it until it stops moving. Probably the only reason he hasn’t brought down the tower yet is because he has the attention span of a horny petrorabbit along with it._

“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do,” Rodimus told him, as steady and reasonable as any Prime should be. “But we can’t just blow up every planet that has dealings with the Quintessons. _Because,”_ he went on determinedly, seeing Galvatron opening his mouth to ask the obvious question, “frankly, we have better things to do, first of all, and second of all we’re trying to make the galaxy _more_ stable and safe, and, you know, smoking-crater-free. Not less.”

“And of course you can’t get your hands on their supply of iridium if you lay them to waste,” Galvatron pointed out shrewdly.

“We can’t _trade_ for it, you mean,” Rodimus corrected stubbornly; for as sharply intelligent as Galvatron was, his mind seemed to run in only a few well-worn directions. “And slag yes I want some iridium. It’s rare, we need it for our manufacturing processes, and we can’t get to it if we start yet _another_ war the galaxy doesn’t need.” His hands flexed, and he pressed them in fists against his hips to control them. “There is a time and a place for your kind of war, Galvatron, but this isn’t it. Trust me on this.” His voice softened. “Okay?”

Some of Galvatron’s amusement drained visibly; his optics dimmed, his mouth relaxed from its avaricious smirk. Violet hands, larger than Rodimus’s, curled around his Prime’s forearms, his hold firm but not painful, and Galvatron stroked his thumbs over the thin pipes of Rodimus’s wrist blasters.

“If your diplomatic overtures cannot solve this problem...” he said, his voice low, rough with the effort of holding his battle-impulses down.

“We’ll reassess,” Rodimus told him, as gently as he could, and lifted his arms. Galvatron didn’t let go of his forearms, but let them move where they would, and Rodimus lay his palms on Galvatron’s chest, on either side of the blazing violet sigil. He could feel the rumble of the engine underneath, its vibrations always hard and sharp with battle-readiness, but as he cycled calmly he felt the vibrations calm and even out, into a more relaxed state. Not completely relaxed - those moments didn’t happen without a lot of work - but enough that he knew Galvatron would let it go for now.

_But no relationship’s perfect, right? And he makes up for it in... other ways. Lots of other ways._

“You will, of course, keep me informed,” Galvatron demanded, squeezing Rodimus’s forearms.

Rodimus hid a smile. “Yes, Galvatron.”

“And the instant those tentacled annoyances make a move...”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Rodimus teased.

Gavatron purred. “That’s my Prime.”

***

_Galvatron’s right to hate the Quintessons. They’ve messed with him personally often enough. Beyond that, they’re slavers and warmongers, and it seems like the more worlds we contact, the more of their tentacles we find. And, well, there’s that whole ‘built both our races as slaves and are trying to destroy us all’ thing. That’s kind of a bummer._

_So we kind of have a rule. If we know you’re dealing with Quints, we won’t deal with you. No trade, no being the neutral party at arbitrations, no nothing. I say ‘kind of’ because sometimes even the people dealing with Quints don’t know they’re dealing with Quints, and anyway suddenly pulling out of diplomatic Stuff is hardly ever a good idea. Doesn’t give us an advantage over the Quints in public opinion, you know? So we try to play it cool. Delicately extricate those evil tentacles from our potential allies._

_...And yes, that was Magnus’s idea, before you ask. Sometimes I don’t think he knows what he’s doing either._

Another day around the conference table, only this time the seats were filled with Autobot peacekeepers and alien diplomats, and not a Galvatron in sight. In his place between Ultra Magnus and Genthil, the head ambassador of the Salekk, Rodimus was uncomfortably stiff, doing his best to look interested and engaged while letting Magnus do all the talking. And then feeling guilty about making Magnus do all the talking, because Magnus wasn’t really a diplomat either, but he certainly knew more about Cybertronian manufacturing processes than Rodimus did. So he did the real work, and Rodimus just sat there like a particularly well-painted lemon and tried not to doodle in his datapad. In the Prime’s humble opinion, a Galvatron would have been a vast improvement.

Genthil glanced over and gave Rodimus a smile, and Rodimus had a moment of panic - _slag I haven’t been paying attention he’s going to ask a question I don’t know the answer to dammit Galvatron why does one thought of you send my concentration straight to hell_ \- but all the crested alien said was “I visited Cybertron briefly in Shockwave’s day, though I wasn’t welcomed nearly as warmly as I have been under your leadership. Iacon has livened up considerably since then.”

Rodimus gave him a crooked smile. “Thank you. Although it’s still very much a work in progress.”

“Then I hope to be invited back again,” Genthil told him, folding back his crest in a manner Rodimus was pretty sure denoted respect, “and see what wonders you Autobots have built.”

“Count on it.” Rodimus gave him a real grin, and turned his attention back to Magnus, who was busily trading figures with Genthil’s assistants.

“So that’s four shipments of Iacon multifunction chips,” Magnus was saying, “in the next orbital cycle... probably spaced out by quarters, depending on how quickly our manufacturing plant achieves full operational capacity. Once the first shipment is launched, we’ll ping you...”

“And your shipment of iridium ore will be launched within a rotation,” one of the assistants said quickly. “Although it may only be a partial shipment. The ore is difficult to mine, and the amount you are requesting is not inconsiderable.”

“Of course the cost is reasonable,” another hastened to add, “for your chips. But there are labor concerns.”

“Of course,” Magnus said peacably. “We do not wish you to overtax your miners. We trust you to pay in full the amount agreed; time is of little import.”

“It’s bad form to send an incomplete shipment,” argued a third assistant unhappily; Genthil leaned over the table, crest feathering out to show its red underside.

“We can always,” he offered kindly, “send a few slaves with the shipment, to balance the scales, if necessary.”

Every Autobot in the room froze so hard their joints creaked, but it was Rodimus they all immediately looked to - Rodimus, who carried first-hand memories of their race’s beginnings in the artifact carried within his body. Rodimus, whose optics were pale, whose posture was stiff as brittle iron, whose hands were desperately trying not to crack the datapad held within them.

Again, it was Magnus who came to his rescue. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, with a bland smile and steel in the undertones of his voice. Genthil looked as though he was about to insist, but the assistant who’d been worried about bad form wisely steered the conversation to some other subject. Mercifully, a recess for fuel was called shortly thereafter, and Rodimus was able to make his escape without comment.

***

_The thing that surprises the people who know about Galvatron’s and my relationship is that it’s completely reciprocal. Galvatron is possessive, jealous and demanding, expects me to cater to his whims - and is capable of some epic tantrums when I refuse to - but when he understands there’s something I want, that mech will move heaven and earth to get it for me. Sometimes he doesn’t even blow things up in the process._

It was a long time before Rodimus could even speak to Galvatron of what was wrong. They fought, out in the wastes where the only things that could be destroyed were empty, derelict buildings that needed to be knocked down anyway, and the only words that passed between them were taunts that grew increasingly childish as they both wearied.

Rodimus reflected, as he was thrown into and through a wall that crumpled as painfully as his spoiler, that if they kept rebuilding Cybertron, they’d eventually run out of places like this, where he and his Emperor could fight safely. Maybe by then they wouldn’t need them anymore. Rodimus struggled up to one elbow, wincing as he shook the artifacts out of his optical data, and looked up as a dark, oppressive shadow fell over him.

“ ‘Wheel-scrubbing scion of a tugboat’?” Galvatron asked archly.

Rodimus gave him a crooked grin. “I might be running out of ideas.”

Galvatron snorted. “Indeed, Prime.” He darted forward, and Rodimus couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. The Decepticon’s pede slammed down on Rodimus’s chest, pinning him in place. _“Surrender!”_ Galvatron boomed.

_He thinks in those terms - possession, conquest, the struggle and the surrender. It’s very binary, the way his processor was made (or twisted, depending on your point of view). But he_ is _capable of learning other ways, of rearranging his thoughts into new shapes when he’s trying to understand my odd Autobot ways. I think he delights in it. It’s his way of sticking it to Unicron._

The shout ignited Rodimus’s sensors, from the spark outward; he squirmed helplessly under Galvatron’s pede, clutching at the ruined floor under him as his vents yawned open to cool his overexerted, overstimulated body. “Never!” burst from him, and he was rewarded by Galvatron increasing the pressure. His abused spoiler screamed. “Never,” Rodimus repeated, but it was hoarser, weaker.

Galvatron lifted his cannon almost calmly, leveled it at Rodimus’s face. The supersonic roar of charging plasma filled the air. “Surrender,” Galvatron repeated, the low volume of his voice the only thing it had in common with Rodimus’s weakened voice.

Rodimus’s hands scraped the floor again. He bit his lip. “...yes,” he whispered.

The cannon didn’t waver. “Say it.”

“I...” Rodimus’s vents rasped. He wondered if Galvatron knew how cruel he was being; not that it would stop him. “I surrender,” he forced out.

In the shadows and dust of the building, Galvatron’s optics glowed, suffusing the gloom, outlining his smirk in red. “I want a confession, my captive,” he said. “Why are we out here?”

“You know I don’t want us fighting in populated ow ow _slag you ow.”_ Rodimus thrashed as Galvatron ground his pede into his chest, forcing his spoiler harder against the floor. “Okay, okay, I get it, that’s not what you meant!”

As stars exploded behind Rodimus’s optics, Galvatron rattled his plating with a rich growl. “I can count on one hand the number of times _you’ve_ dragged _me_ out here, and it’s always, _always_ when something’s managed to upset you and you never let me _obliterate_ the offender!” Rodimus blinked and suppressed a giggle; Galvatron almost sounded _hurt_ by that. “I want to _end_ the problem for once, Prime. Not just serve as your relief valve.”

“Primus, Galvatron.” Rodimus pulled an arm over his face, hiding a grin, though a low rumble told him Galvatron wasn’t fooled. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll talk,” he said, once he could trust himself to speak without laughing. “Let me up, I’ll talk.”

“You’ll talk right where you are.” Galvatron increased the pressure again, just a little, a warning by his standards. “I like you under my pede, Rodimus.” Rodimus groaned, clutching at Galvatron’s leg in an entirely tactile plea.

_...And then, just when I think he_ gets it, _when he’s showing flashes of insight and of caring that could melt my spark... then he goes right back to the bastard spawn of the Unmaker again, and I’m left dizzy and hurting and wanting him more than ever, damn him._

There were a few false starts and frustrated curses before Rodimus could get the words out. They came in sharp-edged bits and pieces, torn from him a little at a time by Galvatron’s increasingly irritated growls and snaps, absolutely no patience spared for Rodimus’s “but we _need_ that iridium” and “negotiations are still delicate at this stage,” all the things Magnus would say, nothing the young Prime _wanted_ to say. Galvatron slowly forgot cannon and pede as a method of restraint, kneeling instead to grasp his shoulders, sitting down to pin Rodimus’s hips. Finally, with Galvatron laid full length on top of him, hands gripping Rodimus’s helm, Rodimus could finally whisper, “They’re slavers. They... they enslave their own people. They’re not just dealing with the Quints, the Salekk are no better than they are!”

Galvatron audibly hesitated. It was another point of contention between them: Galvatron saw absolutely nothing wrong with the strong enslaving the weak, despite beginning life as a slave himself, while Rodimus would have been horrified by it even without the memories he carried of their race’s beginnings. Rodimus shuttered his optics, not wanting to watch his lover-rival puzzle through it, not wanting to see his frustration when he couldn’t.

Galvatron’s thumbs stroked over his cheeks, so gentle it ached. “Now would you like me to lay waste to them?” he asked.

Rodimus’s vents seized, and for a moment he was terrified he was going to start crying. It was a relief when a laugh tore itself from him instead. “Primus, it’s tempting,” he confessed. “It’s so tempting.” Galvatron grinned, dangerous, pleased, and Rodimus gave in happily to the far smaller temptation of a kiss. “You really shouldn’t put power like that in my hands, you know. I can’t be trusted with it.”

“Nonsense,” Galvatron scoffed, and returned the kiss, harder.

Both of their engines were racing by the time it broke, and Galvatron’s hands were curling around Rodimus’s wrists. “Let me try to solve it my way,” he said, “for just a little longer. There’s still a lot I don’t know. For all I know it could just be a translation issue.”

Galvatron huffed his opinion of that, shifting up along Rodimus’s body to more effectively pin his wrists above his head. “Sometimes I wonder,” he said, optics bright with amusement, gentle mockery, and rising lust, “how that spark of yours would survive without me and my cannon between you and the universe you work so hard to protect.”

“Sometimes I do too.” Rodimus arched in blatant invitation, the ache of his spoiler only intensifying his desire. “But I don’t intend to find out.”

***

_You can’t really talk about Galvatron without talking about Cyclonus, as much as they would both vehemently protest it was the other way around. Cyclonus is Galvatron’s right arm, his lieutenant and often his lover. He’s the one who makes sure Galvatron’s commands are followed, and the one who works in Galvatron’s interests sometimes without his commands. Their relationship is both like and unlike my relationship with Ultra Magnus: Cyclonus wouldn’t be caught dead arguing with Galvatron to his face, for example, but he works almost nonstop doing all the things Galvatron can’t or won’t do, that keep the Decepticons alive and together. Loyalty is an unusual defining characteristic in a Decepticon, but anyone who thinks it’s a weakness in Cyclonus quickly learns better._

Rodimus was on his front, Galvatron’s hands on his wrists again, but it was the _other_ pair of hands on his hips that kept him pinned down as foreign, _Unicronian_ energy lashed through him like a hundred whips. He writhed on the berth, kicking weakly, earning an amused hum from the mech plugged into his systems.

“Beautiful,” Galvatron purred from near his helm. “Harder, Cyclonus.”

“At once, my lord,” Cyclonus answered almost placidly, and increased the energy flow. Rodimus jerked his head back with a curse.

_His and my relationship is... more complicated. I’ve made overtures of friendship to him in the past, but he never seems to understand - either his own Unicron-twistedness makes it difficult for him to grasp as it’s difficult for Galvatron to grasp non-violent solutions to problems, or he actually doesn’t like me. He’d shoot me if I said this out loud, but there are times when he seems almost... jealous._

_He shouldn’t be, really. I could never be Galvatron’s lieutenant. I’d look horrible in purple._

Cyclonus was as fearsome as Galvatron in his own way - nearly a match for him in raw power, and a true match for him in sheer implacable will. Rodimus took all of it into himself, meeting the cold rush of energy with his own warmth, and unleashing it back across the connection with a cry that wouldn’t have sounded out of place on a battlefield. Cyclonus, not nearly so dramatic, let out only a _huff_ of vented air in response, but his hands tightened on Rodimus’s hips and his legs trembled. It was enough for Rodimus to picture Cyclonus’s face, the sharp, noble mouth drawn in pleasure; and that, and the eager squeeze of Galvatron’s hands on his wrists, was enough to trigger his overload.

Cyclonus must have overloaded as well; when Rodimus came back to himself, his partner was lying half on top of him, vents slowly coming down from a post-interface roar, and Galvatron was easing himself onto the berth and pulling on Cyclonus’s wing until he rolled, placing himself head and shoulders across his lord’s thighs. “At your command, Mighty Galvatron,” Cyclonus said, and his voice was certainly _not_ hoarser or more tired than normal and he would certainly shoot any Primes foolish enough to suggest otherwise.

“Excellent, my lieutenant.” Galvatron kept his grip on Cyclonus’s wing. “Rodimus? Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

_His offer._ Rodimus shuttered his optics, the pleasant warmth in his body from the overload gone in an instant. “I know this doesn’t mean anything to you, Galvatron,” he said quietly, watching lord and lieutenant bask in each other’s presence, “but I had Jazz sneak onto Salekk to take a look around, and - it’s bad. They really are slavers, and they treat their slaves worse than drones.”

“Is that a yes?” Galvatron’s optics sought his out, bright with murderous promises.

Rodimus shuddered, turning his back on the fires he saw in his lover’s optics. “Your way will slaughter slave and slaveowner alike,” he said into the berth. “No, Galvatron. The Autobots will pull out of negotiations with Salekk, for that and for their dealings with the Quints... but... but, _Primus,”_ he cried out, thumping the thick padding, “there has to be something more I can do!”

Rodimus rocked on the berth, optics dark, fighting with his sickness at the suffering of people he’d never met and had nothing to offer him. Although he could feel the ambient heat from Galvatron and Cyclonus against his spoiler, the separation between them yawned wide and cold as space, a gulf of understanding that he despaired of ever bridging.

He’d almost made up his mind to leave them entirely when a finely-wrought hand wrapped around his shoulder. “There is always,” Cyclonus said quietly, “the option of equipping a revolt.”

_And they say Cyclonus never takes initiative._ Rodimus sat up, grasping Cyclonus’s hand with his own. “Could we? Could _you?”_

Cyclonus smiled. “Crowd psychology is one of my specialties, Prime.”

“Cy _clon_ us.” Galvatron’s grip tightened. “I dislike this talk of inciting slave rebellions.”

Rodimus deflated. Cyclonus turned to his lord, his free hand placed gently on the bright orange cannon. “More,” he asked with infinite respect and deference, “than you dislike your Prime in distress, Mighty One?”

Rodimus’s spark jumped. Galvatron’s expression snapped from warning to outright glare, but he couldn’t help his gaze flickering to the Prime in question. Rodimus tucked his head down, avoiding Galvatron’s optics, biting his lip fiercely to hide a smile.

_But there are times when he offers me - opportunities, open doors, things I never thought possible or never knew I needed. Things that I think count as overtures of friendship, or at least tolerance. For all his prickly pride... I really, really like Cyclonus._

Galvatron made a scoffing noise and shoved Cyclonus off his lap, sending him to the floor with a clatter. “Be gone, then, do as you wish. And be quick about it!”

“At once, my lord!”

“No manipulating them,” Rodimus was moved to say as Cyclonus picked himself up off the ground from the mighty shove.

Cyclonus turned to give him a smile. “Somehow I doubt they will need much convincing, let alone manipulation.”

Rodimus smiled back, hope rising in his spark; but then Galvatron dragged him close and Cyclonus was lost to his view.

***

_It’s not common knowledge, Galvatron’s and my relationship. It’s hard to explain and people would get the wrong idea. Like, I was holding Galvatron’s leash. Like, he was working for the Autobots. Like, I could control him._

_I never make the mistake of thinking that. Galvatron won’t let me._

Officially, Rodimus was back on Earth, getting some much-needed rest and maintenance. (Funny how he was only listed as ‘getting rest and maintenance’ as a cover for something else.) In reality, he was on Salekk, having accepted an invitation there under the pretense of reopening negotiations as a cover for meeting with the leaders of the soon-to-be-ex-slaves; in more immediate reality, he was pinned to the wall in the luxurious suite they’d furnished for him, his “body servant” snarling into his neck.

“What the slag has gotten into you!” Rodimus demanded, digging a fist into Galvatron’s side. “Get off me!”

“Shut up, _Prime.”_ Galvatron tightened his grip, grinning when Rodimus gasped in pain. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Do you want me to answer?” Rodimus grinned despite his anger. “Or to shut up?”

Galvatron’s optics all but crossed in enraged bewilderment. “It was a figure of speech!”

Rodimus took advantage of the moment, hitting Galvatron with a knee to the hip-joint, then throwing himself against the opposite arm. Galvatron roared, but his grip was lost; Rodimus leaped out of his reach and was free for all of two seconds before Galvatron’s thrusters boomed (making the floor under him _buckle_ ) and launched him bodily into Rodimus’s back. The leaders went down in a roaring tangle of metal, cursing and striking and biting and not at all adhering to the rules of honorable combat.

This time it was Rodimus who pinned his rival, optics blazing with triumph and fury as he locked his legs around Galvatron’s hips and pinned him to the floor with his own weight. “Have you completely lost it this time?” he demanded. “Do you not see what’s going on out there? The capitol is _on fire._ I have to be out there!”

Galvatron’s optics held a searing fire of their own. “Oh, of course, Chosen One!” he mocked. “You must sweep through the city and rescue the poor, helpless slaves. Become their hero. Perhaps have a statue raised in your honor-”

“No!” Rodimus snatched his hands away like they’d been burned. Galvatron surged up under him, struck out with both fists to knock him halfway across the room. Rodimus hit the floor with a pained cry and scrambled back, instinct making him fight when his own horror and confusion might have made him pause; but Galvatron fired his thrusters again, slamming him back down against the floor in an impact that made Rodimus dizzy with pain. He felt Galvatron’s hands grip his helm before he could gather the will to struggle again.

“The slaves will prevail,” Galvatron growled, forehelm to forehelm with Rodimus. “Or they will perish. But they will do so _by their own power._ They will not be beholden to Cybertron. They will not trade one master for another.”

“That was never my intention!” Rodimus cried.

Galvatron’s hold gentled. “I know.”

Rodimus’s vents hitched. The powerful rumble of Galvatron’s body filled him, altered his own body’s resonance to mesh with the Unicronian’s. It wasn’t a comfortable state, rumbling in tandem with Galvatron, who had been created by the Chaos-Bringer.

Created a slave.

Rodimus shut off his optics, but he could still feel the heat of Galvatron’s body, hear the crackling roar of a city consuming itself with flame. The slaves - the _revolutionaries_ \- some of them would die today, too few quickly, all violently, for the crime of wanting their freedom enough to die for it. And so would some of the free Salekks - for an unknown number of them, their only crime was to be born in a slaveholding society with no opportunity to learn another way.

Optimus Prime would have found another way. To free the slaves without anyone having to die for it. And they probably would have lifted up a statue in his honor.

“I can’t,” he said, and trembled at how hoarse his voice sounded. “I can’t just do nothing.”

“I know,” Galvatron said again, and tilted his head back. “But I can stop you.”

The warlord forced Rodimus’s head back with a cruel press of thumbs under his chin, and dipped his head down to bite at his neck cables. Rodimus writhed, wild hands gripping at Galvatron’s shoulder and back, soft rasps of sound escaping him as Galvatron laughed. The warlord lifted his head, licked a fiery trail along Rodimus’s jaw, and bit down again, hard enough to strike sparks against his dentae. “Don’t worry, Rodimus,” Galvatron chuckled when Rodimus gave a strangled cry. “Cyclonus seemed... confident.”

Rodimus whimpered, and gripped one of the tines of his warlord’s crown to drag him deeper into the bites. Galvatron obliged, worrying at his prize with ardent, unchallengable possessiveness.

“‘Body servant’,” he growled resentfully into Rodimus’s bruised and throbbing neck.

Rodimus’s vents opened, whining hoarsely for cool air. “We - we agreed the deception was necessary. You said it was enough that we knew the truth.”

Galvatron hummed thoughtfully and sat up, letting Rodimus get the full effect of his possessive smirk. “Suppose,” he rumbled, stroking his thumb down Rodimus’s sore jaw, “I’ve forgotten the truth. Tell me what I am, Rodimus Prime. Be-” a hard grasp of his chin - “perfectly-” a kiss, achingly soft - “honest.”

Rodimus cried out and strained after him when he pulled away, but Galvatron kept him pinned, implacable hands prisoning his squirming Prime as far away outside their window something boomed and crumbled. Rodimus jerked against Galvatron’s hold, engine racing, gripping his wrists for lack of anything else he could do. “You’re a miswired, overclocked, bossy slagging _lunatic,”_ he growled, and Galvatron laughed and tightened his grip.

“Keep going,” he ordered imperiously, and Rodimus _writhed._

“The leader of the Decepticons,” he gasped out, groping for the right answer. “The Emperor of Destruction.”

“Is that what I am to you?” Galvatron demanded, optics flashing. “Then we should be fighting. I should conquer you with my cannon, not with a kiss.”

Rodimus shook his head apologetically, and Galvatron relented again, lifted one hand to stroke his face. “Tell me,” he commanded again, but he allowed Rodimus to mouth at his fingertips a moment before he answered.

“You... are... my weapon and my god of war,” Rodimus sighed out, tilting his head back to expose his abused throat. “My madness, and my sanity. My safety and-” He laughed a little. “And the stupidest risk I’ve ever taken.”

Galvatron laughed too, his hold on Rodimus’s helm and shoulder becoming more of a cradling as he leaned down again to nuzzle and lick at the wounds on Rodimus’s throat. Rodimus hummed, arching up against him in offering, and was answered with a purr that was half growl as Galvatron’s hand slid under him to fondle his spoiler moorings. Rodimus clutched at his arms, entire body tensing with the power of his engine’s throaty rev. Galvatron’s body responded in kind, vibrating with a roar that was almost a scream, and he snarled against the sheer force of it and crushed his mouth to Rodimus’s.

“My Chosen One,” he rumble-whispered when the kiss broke.

“My spark’s lord,” Rodimus whispered back, opening his ports in welcome. Galvatron took what was offered up to him and plugged himself in roughly, wringing a cry from Rodimus’s mouth that was quickly drowned with kisses.

Outside, the Salekk capitol was consumed by a fire that had been smouldering underneath the surface for far too long. In their suite, Rodimus and Galvatron were consumed - all too willingly - by a flame of their own making.

***

“The Free Salekk Coalition is on the comm!” Blaster sang out, sweeping the curtains aside to let in the bright, cheery sunlight of a new Earth day. “Up and at ‘em, Prime! Time for all good little diplomats to rise and shine!” There was a low, grumpy groan from somewhere in the mass of thermal regulator blankets; Blaster chuckled as he approached the Prime’s large berth. “C’mon, Roddy, they won’t negotiate with Magnus. They like you better for some reason.” He reached out, tugged on the blanket.

Unless the young Prime had gotten yet another upgrade recently, that was _not_ his arm, with long orange cannon attached, that rose out of the blanket pile. Blaster squeaked and backpedaled as Galvatron sat up, recharge-bleary optics focusing on him with an effort. “Shall I terminate him, Rodimus?” he offered.

A second arm arose - to Blaster’s relief, a red one with forearm piping - and pointed at Galvatron. “What have I told you about tempting me?”

Galvatron chuckled, lowered his weapon; Blaster slumped in relief. “I’ll be there in an astrosec, Blaster,” Rodimus went on, still buried in blankets but for that one arm. “Just let me get freshened up.”

“Sure, Fearless.” Wisely, Blaster fled without any more teasing, and Galvatron lay back down with a grumble.

“Your troops are entirely too familiar with you,” he informed his lover in a low, indulgent grumble as Rodimus stretched out beside him. “I approve of their title for you, however.”

“Uh - yeah. It’s great.” Rodimus grinned and - again, wisely - kept the information that ‘Fearless Leader’ was more of a pet name than a title, and where that pet name had come from, to himself. He sat up, stretched again, tugged the blanket away from his lap. “This shouldn’t take too long. The iridium ingots are already in transit, and I know the new ambassador likes me.”

He swung his legs over the side of the berth, but before he could get up, a warm arm wrapped itself around his waist, arresting his movement. “He can wait,” Galvatron purred, right next to his spoiler, and pulled him back again.

Rodimus Prime, his ‘resist temptation’ reserves well and truly tapped out, surrendered with a breathless laugh and a stolen kiss.

_I showed up to that teleconference a little disheveled. Magnus looked scandalized. Blaster almost burst a gasket. The ambassador just kinda looked amused. But we had a productive talk and he invited me over sometime to see how the rebuilding effort was progressing. He promised no statues._

_No Quints either. Nothing even remotely resembling a tentacle anywhere on the planet. We all made sure of that._

_And my loose cannon? That fragger lazed around in my berth until past noon and then proceeded to tear through the obstacle course. And I do mean that literally. Poor Grapple, he about went into shock when he saw. At least until Hoist brought up all those improvements he’d been wanting to make, heh. Actually, I’m less irritated about having to rebuild the slagging thing than the fact that Galvatron beat my best time. He totally cheated, though. So it doesn’t count. I don’t care what he says._

_I’m still gonna beat his record. And I’m gonna see that shine of pride, that fierce grin on Galvatron’s face when I cross the finish line, that he always gets when I manage to impress him._

_And then he’s going to tackle me. Kinda looking forward to that too._


End file.
